Forge of Mars - Graham McNeill
Page 87
Whipping blade-arms cut the air like razors, crackling with arcs of angry energy. The static-filled eyes of the Tindalosi blazed with aching desire, a soul-deep need to hunt the prey whose binaric scent enslaved their every sense.
With a pulse of thought, Telok unlocked the bindings holding the Tindalosi to their caskets. They surged free; enraged, famished and blaring with hostile binary. Phase-shifting claws flickered with unlight and Telok felt a thrill of fear as they encircled him like pack-wolves in the final moments of a hunt.
The geas he had bound them to would render him lethally toxic to their devouring hearts, but would their hatred of him overcome the prospect of extinction?
They howled as they caught the scent of Kotov, bounding towards the Barisan. They fell upon it with the thoroughness of the most rapacious ferrophage. Claws tore through armoured plates and ripped them from the gunship’s fuselage as they sought the source of their prey’s binary scent. The keel of the Barisan split as supporting structural members were torn asunder and the gunship was comprehensively dismantled in a furious unmaking.
Telok grinned as the gunship’s binaric screams filled the chamber, a drawn-out death howl of machine agony. Its once-proud spirit was dying piece by piece. Not devoured, not absorbed, but shredded into ever smaller fragments before being cast to oblivion.
Within minutes the Thunderhawk was a wreck, its warlike form broken down into a ruin of buckled iron, ripped plating and shattered, soulless components.
Most soldiers’ bars were raucous places, where drunken disorder was common and broken noses a nightly occurrence. But most bars weren’t Cadian bars. Spit in the Eye had once been an abandoned maintenance hangar for geoformer vehicles, which meant it had a ready-made system of pumps, storage vats and open spaces. A hundred off-duty Guardsmen sat at its tables, drinking, swapping stories, cleaning weapons and bellyaching that they weren’t with their colonel.
Captain Hawkins sat alone at a table near the corner of the makeshift bar, afforded an enfilading view down its length and a direct view of the entrance. His lasrifle sat propped against the table, his sword and kit bag hung on canvas slings across the back of his chair.
A number of his senior NCOs – Jahn Callins, Taybard Rae – and even a commissar named Vasken sat playing cards with their squad leaders, and Emil Nader and Kayrn Sylkwood from the Renard. Normally anyone who wasn’t part of the regiment could expect short shrift from its soldiers, but Surcouf’s folk had quickly found a welcome with their repertoire of inventive card games.
Hawkins grinned. If a life in the Imperial Guard had taught him anything, it was that soldiers seized on any way to stave off boredom. And like all soldiers, Cadians loved cards. He couldn’t see what they were playing, but from the look of Jahn Callins’s face, it seemed like Nader was winning.
He resisted the urge to join them. They were NCOs and he was an officer. The relationship between Cadian ranks was less formal than in many other regiments, but Hawkins understood that downtime was precious to his soldiers and knew better than to intrude when they were off-duty.
Instead, he took a sip of the cloudy drink in the chipped glass before him. Its catch-all name between regiments was bilge hooch, but each Cadian enginseer of the 71st had his or her own fiercely guarded recipe and name. This one belonged to Enginseer Rocia, and was called Scarshine. A potent brew, if a tad chemical for Hawkins’s tastes, but what else would you expect from a drink brewed on a Mechanicus starship?
Despite its strength, not one Cadian in the Spit in the Eye would leave intoxicated. His soldiers knew how to handle their drink, and – more importantly – knew the disciplinary price of a hangover wasn’t worth the fleeting enjoyment of being drunk. Hawkins spotted a few of the younger troopers knocking back their drinks with gusto, but, equally, saw a number of the older troopers looking out for them.
Satisfied the men and women under his command would all be fit for their next duty rotation, Hawkins turned his attention to the schematics displayed on the data-slate propped up on the table before him.
Below the waterline they called it, in reference to some old naval term, and no matter how often Hawkins studied the Speranza’s lower deck plans, he couldn’t seem to reconcile the pages of handwritten defensive plans he’d drawn up on the many tours he’d made of the ship since leaving Hypatia.
Hawkins heard footsteps and looked up in time to see Rae approaching. The sergeant turned a chair around and sat across it with the back pressed to his chest.
‘Is she making any sense yet, sir?’ asked Rae, nodding towards the Speranza’s schematics.
‘No, sergeant, and I doubt she ever will.’
‘Every girl needs to keep some secrets below the waterline, eh?’
Hawkins nodded and shut off the slate.
‘Every adept I’ve asked just nods and feeds me a line about each ship being different and how it’s not unknown for them to “adapt” their environment to suit the circumstances. I mean, it’s like they’re talking about this ship as though it’s alive.’
‘If that’s what they think, then who’s to say they’re wrong?’ said Rae. ‘After all, you’ve heard the way soldiers talk to their kit when there’s fire in the wind. Prayers to lasguns, kisses for blades.’
‘I suppose,’ admitted Hawkins, pushing an empty glass over to Rae and gesturing to the bottle at the centre of the table.
‘Don’t mind if I do, sir,’ said Rae, pouring a moderate measure.
‘So what’s on your mind, Rae?’
‘Just wondered if you’d fancy joining us for a game of Knights and Knaves, sir,’ said Rae. ‘It’s a new game of Master Nader’s. It’s not bad, you might even be able to win a hand or two.’
‘May as well,’ replied Hawkins, tucking the slate into his kit bag. ‘I’m getting nowhere with this.’
Gathering up his things, Hawkins followed Rae over to his NCOs’ table and pulled over a chair. Like Rae before him, he reversed it before sitting down.
‘Sir,’ said Jahn Callins with a nod. ‘Good to have you in the ranks. This Ultramarian rogue is going to clean us all out soon.’
Emil Nader tried to look hurt, but was too drunk to pull it off convincingly. Kayrn Sylkwood grinned at her fellow crewman’s attempt and looked Hawkins in the eye as he sat down.
‘He’s ahead now,’ she said, ‘but another drink and he’ll get cocky and bet against me. Then maybe I’ll let one of you win it back if I think you’re pretty enough to take to my bunk.’
Even with the best will in the world, none of the men around the table could be called pretty. Commissar Vasken’s face was a craggy moonscape whose frown looked to have been cast in clay at birth. Guardsman Tukos had been scarred by a grenade blast on Baktar III, Jahn Callins was a leather-tough supply officer and Rae was a thick-necked sergeant common the galaxy over.
Hawkins had, of course, heard what Galatea had done to Mistress Tychon and the Renard’s armsman. He’d only met them briefly at Colonel Anders’s dinner prior to the crossing of the Halo Scar, but he’d liked them instinctively. Magos Dahan had wanted to storm the bridge with a cohort of skitarii, but any notions of reprisal had been quashed by a decree from Magos Blaylock.
Perhaps the company of fighting men eased Nader and Sylkwood’s pain or perhaps they simply wanted to get drunk and forget their grief
for a time.
Nader dealt out a hand as Sylkwood explained the rules again. Her Cadian accent had softened, but was still there and only became stronger the more she drank. They played a few hands to let Hawkins become acquainted with the rules, which were simple enough, but by the time they’d played a few more, he realised they had layers of unexpected complexity.
By the fifth hand, he’d all but cashed out of betting chips.
‘You see what we’re up against, sir?’ said Rae with a grin.
‘Indeed I do,’ said Hawkins. ‘I think we’ve been hustled.’
‘We played a square game, captain,’ said Nader, his words beginning to run together. ‘Same rules apply.’
‘Maybe so, Master Nader, but I can’t help thinking that you’re taking advantage of us poor soldiers.’
‘Me, take advantage?’ grinned Nader. ‘Never!’
‘Sir,’ said Rae, nodding towards the entrance to the Spit in the Eye. Hawkins looked up, seeing the silver-haired man with the canidae tattoo who’d been watching them training the other day.
‘What’s he doing here?’ said Hawkins, pushing up from his chair as the man saw him and began walking over. He headed to the bar, knowing Sergeant Rae was right behind him. Emil Nader and Kayrn Sylkwood might have been accepted, but that didn’t mean anyone else would be made welcome.
The man reached the bar before them and leaned over to lift a bottle of Scarshine from beneath. He uncorked it with his teeth and grabbed a handful of glasses, apparently oblivious to the hostile looks he was attracting. The muscled corporal behind the bar reached down for his concealed shock maul, but Hawkins waved him off.
‘Can I offer you a drink, captain?’ said the man as Hawkins propped himself against the bar. The man poured a generous measure and held the bottle out over two empty glasses. ‘It’s not vintage amasec, but I hear it’s drinkable.’
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ said Hawkins, placing a hand over the empty glasses. Closer now, he could see twin scars on his cheeks and the steel-rimmed socket plugs at the nape of the man’s neck.
Titan crew. No doubt about it.
‘The drinks here are for Cadians only,’ said Hawkins, lifting the man’s glass and emptying it into the slops tray.
‘Now that’s just damn wasteful,’ said the man.
‘You didn’t answer me,’ said Hawkins. ‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t recognise me?’
‘Should I?’
‘Princeps Gunnar Vintras,’ said the man, visibly puffing out his chest. ‘Also known as the Skinwalker, the Haunter of the Shadows.’
Hawkins chuckled and turned to Rae. ‘Come to think of it, sergeant, I have heard of him. Only I didn’t think he was still a princeps. Didn’t the Legio strip you of your command after you lost one of their engines?’
Vintras put a hand to his neck. Hawkins saw the ridged line of a scar where it looked like someone had tried to cut his throat. The Skinwalker scowled and said, ‘I didn’t lose Amarok, it was just… scarred somewhat. Anyway, Turentek’s practically repaired all the damage now. And it’s not like I’m the first princeps ever to have a Titan damaged under him, so I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.’
‘Right, so now we know who you are, perhaps you can tell us why you’re here,’ said Hawkins.
‘I want to train with you,’ said Vintras.
At first Hawkins thought he’d misheard.
‘You want to train with us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Look, Princeps Luth may have stripped me of my command for now, but do you realise just how rare it is for any human being to have the precise mental and physical make-up to command a Titan? No, I expect you don’t. Well, it’s rare, very rare. So rare in fact that no Legio would ever throw someone like that away over something as trivial as getting an engine a bit scratched. Trust me, the Legio will take me back soon enough, it’s only a matter of time. And when that time comes, I need to be in peak physical condition. Which isn’t going to happen if I just sit about drinking and feeling sorry for myself.’
‘You’re a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?’ said Hawkins.
Vintras grinned back at him.
‘I’m a Warhound driver,’ he said. ‘What did you expect?’
Hawkins leaned in close and said, ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not exactly popular here. We don’t welcome outsiders into our bars, let alone our training programmes.’
‘Why not?’ asked Vintras, turning to point at the Renard’s crew. ‘They’re not Cadian, but I don’t see you throwing them out.’
‘Actually, Mistress Sylkwood is Cadian,’ pointed out Rae. ‘And Master Nader, well, we like him.’
‘You’re saying you don’t like me?’ said Vintras with a pout that made Hawkins want to put his fist through his face. ‘You don’t even know me.’
‘Call it gut instinct,’ said Hawkins. ‘But if you want to train with us, fine, come train with us.’
‘Sir?’ said Rae. ‘Are you sure–’
‘Let’s see how Master Vintras fares after a couple of days,’ said Hawkins with a grin. ‘If he’s going to pass a Legio physical, he’s going to have to sweat blood. I’m putting you in charge of his detail, Sergeant Rae, so work him hard. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Rae with obvious relish. ‘Perfectly.’
A huge goods elevator conveyed them to the surface, a shuttered iron cage located beneath a vaulted arch at the end of the transformer chamber. The metal-plated flooring of the car was dented, with frothed pools of greasy effluvia that stank like overused cooking fat pooled in the depressions. Pavelka tasted it and told Roboute it was the residue of bio-synthetic chemicals used to slow the rate of decay in the flesh of servitors.
Roboute gagged and sat back on his haunches, keeping well clear of those puddles. Sergeant Tanna’s Black Templars stood in the centre of the elevator car, their weapons trained outwards. Roboute heard the clicks of their internal vox and wondered what tactical scenarios they might possibly have for this situation.
Archmagos Kotov stood in the opposite corner to Roboute, his skitarii shielding his wounded body from sight. Roboute could only imagine the pain of crushed hope now curdled to despair.
Ven Anders’s Cadians sat against an adjacent cage wall, all of them appearing to be taking their current situation in their stride. A couple smoked bac-sticks, most cleaned their weapons. The rest slept.
The elevator car shuddered as its braided metal cabling switched to a higher-placed cable cylinder. Too deep for a single cable to lift, the elevator shifted shafts every few hundred metres with a thudding clatter of ratcheting gears. Roboute closed his eyes, convinced the ancient car was going to come loose and plummet back into the depths of Exnihlio.
‘How deep did you send us?’ asked Roboute, looking to where the eldar kept themselves as separate from the Imperials as possible.
Bielanna looked up. She’d removed her helmet, and Roboute was shocked at the sunken shadows around her eyes.
‘Deep,’ was all she said.
Roboute didn’t press the issue, clenching and unclenching his sweating fingers. He tried to control his breathing and looked over at the cracked display slate next to the elevator’s hydraulic controls. The scrolling binary meant nothing to him, changing too rapidly for him to work out the sequence.
‘Can’t they just use normal numbers?’ muttered Roboute, more to himself than anyone in particular. ‘Imperator, how much longer is this going to take?’
‘The controls indicated we began our ascent on a level some twenty-seven kilometres beneath the planet’s surface,’ said Pavelka. ‘At our current rate of ascent, it should take just under an hour to reach the surface.’
Roboute exhaled slowly. An hour!
‘Reminds me of the training levels be
neath Kasr Holn,’ said Ven Anders with a grin. ‘Now those were some deep, dark places. Tunnels you had to wriggle along like a worm, blind corners, kill boxes and some of the nastiest trigger-traps I’ve ever seen. Magos Dahan’s got nothing like it on the training deck.’
‘Sounds like you miss them,’ said Roboute.
Anders shrugged. ‘They were hard times, but good times. We were learning how to fight the enemies of the Emperor, so, yes, I remember that time fondly. You don’t have good memories of your time in the Ultramarian auxilia?’
‘I suppose I do,’ said Roboute, grateful for a memory that wasn’t darkness and air running out. ‘But the training I did in Calth’s caverns wasn’t nearly as… enclosed as this.’
‘You’re not claustrophobic, are you?’
‘I don’t have many phobias, Ven, but being trapped alone in the darkness is one that’s haunted my nightmares ever since the Preceptor was crippled by that hellship.’
‘Understandable,’ said Anders.
‘And it feels like I’m living that nightmare right now.’
Anders nodded, and left him alone after that.
The rest of the journey passed in silence, or as close to silence as the creaking ascent of the lift allowed. Roboute knew they were near the end of their journey when Tanna’s warriors took up battle postures at the corners of the car. Bielanna’s warriors did likewise, moving in a way that naturally complemented the deployment of the Space Marines.
Finally, the car came to a shuddering halt. The single lumen flickered and the shuttered door ratcheted open with a squeal of rusted hydraulic mechanisms. A petrochemical reek flooded the goods elevator, together with a billowing cloud of particulates.
Roboute coughed and put a hand to his face.
‘This isn’t one of those toxic regions Telok mentioned, is it?’
‘The air content is mildly hazardous,’ agreed Pavelka as the Black Templars punched out through the door. The eldar went next, the Cadians following swiftly behind.
‘Mildly? Coming from a tech-priest, that’s not exactly reassuring,’ said Roboute, covering his mouth with his hand.